


Panto Street Theatre

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: While Undercover, Bodie is forced to shoot Doyle and then flee. Did he kill his lover?
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Kudos: 17





	Panto Street Theatre

Panto Street Theatre

This was not supposed to happen. Bodie’s heart raced, but outwardly he remained calm, the picture of a professional. Tightening his grip on the pistol, he pointed it directly at his target.

Green eyes widened.

To his right, a pair of brown eyes narrowed, suspicious and cruel. “I’ll take the shot.” Belham attempted to push in front, weapon raised.

Staring straight ahead, Bodie pulled the trigger before Belham could fire. 

Doyle fell bonelessly, curling to the right, arms clutching his torso. 

Bodie’s gut clenched like a fist, the pistol hot in his hand. “Leg it out of ‘ere,” he ordered Belham. “Before there’s a report of gunshots to the coppers.”

“Sure ‘e’s dead?” Belham started toward the body lying in rubbish on the icy alley pavement. 

“Berk, Sullivan’ll have yer ‘ead, ‘e will, if you foul up his plans.” Wanted to call him every name in the book. Shove him away and run to his love. 

“Bloody git nicked me five years ago for arson. Done three years inside.” Belham aimed a kick at Doyle’s flank. He was a tank in human form, twice Doyle’s size. Even a glancing blow from that immense shoe was going to leave a bruise, if not break a rib. “Meant to kill him meself.”

“Don’t touch nothing,” Bodie warned, forcing himself not to look at Doyle’s inert form. “You’ve got a sheet, your dabs’re on record.” He grabbed Belham’s beefy arm and propelled him to the panel van.

Without a backward glance, Bodie made it to the passenger side. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the shooting, praying that Doyle had sussed his intent. He’d deliberately skewed the barrel to the side, between Doyle’s slender waist and the angle of his right arm. A tricky shot but not impossible—no vital organs involved, at the very least. 

Belham had recognized the former copper, of all the luck. Had fingered him in the chip shop where Bodie was passing info to Murphy across the counter. Murphy was then supposed to hand it on to Doyle when he came in for chips.

“Fancy some?” Belham placed the bag between them on the bench seat, starting the engine. “For a job well done.”

The smell of fried oil turned Bodie’s stomach, something he’d never expected would happen. How could he contact Murphy now—or Cowley? What if Doyle was injured? Bodie knew his own shooting ability well enough to guarantee that he hadn’t killed his lover, but lying there on the cold pavement would be brutal, especially if Doyle were bleeding.

“Meeting Sullivan at the warehouse?” Bodie asked casually, taking two of the crispy potatoes from the twist of newsprint as Belham steered onto the roadway. He wanted out of this operation, now. Hadn’t liked it from the first. Separated from Doyle at Christmas week was onerous enough. Undercover in a fucking Irish gang intent on disrupting the holiday with a spectacular explosion whilst most of England was listening to the Queen’s speech on the telly was more than any CI5 agent should have to endure. 

“Last minute palaver before the job tomorrow.” Belham grinned, his round pudding face alight with glee. He pounded on the dashboard, cheeks puffing out when he made the sound of a bomb going off. “That was an extra pressie, that was. Killing Doyle’s better’n a free bottle of Guinness.”

“Dangerous, on the street like that,” Bodie remarked, closing his eyes for a moment to compose. 

Thankfully, it was next to impossible to bomb Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle with the dozens of guards always on alert there. Her Majesty was at Balmoral, in any event. There were several other locations such as underground stations and Albert Hall on Paddy Sullivan’s short list. 

Bodie’d managed to slide a copy written on a narrow sliver of paper over to Murphy under the guise of paying for the chips. All should have gone smoothly but for a woman arguing with the fry cook, which delayed their order. When Doyle walked in to join the queue of customers. Belham had seen his face.

Belham had pushed Bodie into the alley two shops along until Doyle emerged, munching on his own chips. Bodie never had a chance to do anything but silently communicate his regret.

The shot had been shockingly loud to his own ears. He couldn’t imagine why none of the chippy’s patrons hadn’t run out to investigate.

“Some sort of roadblock at the junction.” Belham pointed with his chip before stuffing it into his gob. 

“Checking for drivers coming out of pubs and such, I’ll wager.” Bodie peered at the revolving blue lights barricading the crossroad. Just another delay before he could get out of this commitment. Cowley’d have his goolies if these wankers carried through with their plan.

“I’ll go ‘round.” Belham announced, turning the steering wheel to bypass the slowing cars.

“You really want to call attention to yourself, don’t you?” Bodie asked irritably. “First the copper and now circumventing the queue in front of this lot? Neither of us’ve been to the pub, what’s the problem?” He hooked a hand around the steering wheel, jabbing his finger in their current direction. “Look innocent and it will all be over in a tick.”

“Said it yourself,” Belham glowered. “I’ve got a sheet.”

“And if you act like a proper law abidin’ citizen on his way to hearth and home after last minute Christmas shopping, coppers won’t go to the trouble of checking, will they?” Bodie fought down the urge to pull his gun on Belham then and there. 

He kept remembering another time, another place, when he’d had to make it seem like he’d killed Doyle. That graceful swan dive collapse in a car park, Doyle face down in a puddle. Bodie had been forced to play a part then. Forced to keep his fear under wraps, even when the gang he’d infiltrated had learned of his identity and strapped a bomb on his chest. He’d nearly killed Doyle all over again when the fool had chased him down to rescue him from certain death if it had exploded. Doyle had saved his life—both their lives.

That had been the first time they’d made love. The same night. He shut down hard on the memory. Now was not the time to indulge, he had to stay focussed and alert. That was the only way he’d stay alive to get back to Doyle.

The police let a Ford drive on. There was a Vauxhall and a Volkswagen between them and the checkpoint, which even to Bodie’s mind, was taking forever. Belham was twitching, tapping his fingers nervously on the gearshift, the radio knob, and window winder. After he’d turned on and off BBC One three times, Bodie grabbed his wrist.

“Leave off! Finish the chips.” He shoved the newspaper cone at Belham with a growl. “They’re checking ‘alf of London. Not looking for you.”

Except--Bodie squinted at the man in the official blue cap of the Metropolitan Police. It was quite a distance still, but the man looked familiar. Perhaps it was his overactive imagination playing tricks on him, but the bloke looked more than a little like Cowley’s latest hire. Bodie couldn’t recall his name. Couldn’t possibly be him, could it? 

Then he saw a taller, dark skinned man, and the fist that had been Bodie’s stomach eased. 

That was Jax, as he lived and breathed. The Vauxhall moved into position for a short session with the uniformed man carrying a clipboard and was allowed to go through. Then the green VW drove to the checkpoint.

“Bollocks! They’ve not even used the breathing meter on anyone,” Belham raged, looking about frantically. “I’m getting out.” He yanked on the door handle.

“You’re the driver,” Bodie said, going for as sensible as possible. He was about to be put out of his misery. The whole charade had obviously meant to trap Belham before they could flee to the countryside. Had his messages from earlier in the day got to CI5 headquarters in time? Had they rounded up Sullivan’s gang? Or was this all a cock-up in the end?

He clamped his hand around Belham’s massive wrist as the door swung open. “Drive the effing car, you lily livered git.”

“Bloody hell…” Belham whispered on a startled inhale.

Only his invective had nothing to do with Bodie’s command. He sounded stunned, in shock.

Bodie looked past Jax and the rookie to two men standing in the small shelter set up for the checkpoint. Murphy still wore the jumper with Chippy Chap stitched in red across the front, and Doyle had on someone else’s Machintosh.

_Doyle._

Hale and hearty. 

Bodie grinned savagely, giving Belham a slight kick in the leg as payback. “I must not ‘ave killed the blighter,” he said, feeling a dash of wicked glee. “Face the music, berk.”

Belham launched out of the car with an incoherent cry, racing toward the Thames. 

Wondering idly if he intended to jump in, Bodie clambered into the driver’s seat to inch the car over to the side of the barrier. A chorus of horns blared behind him until he’d got completely out of the lane. 

By the time he’d managed to park, Doyle had walked into range. He pointed a single finger at Bodie. “Bang.”

“Wounded me, mate, you really have.” Bodie stood akimbo in front of his love. If only he could bundle him into the panel van and whisk him away to a cross timbered cottage in Upper Lower Cotswobble or somewhere remote like that to kiss him tenderly.

Those green eyes went wide, pupils nearly filling the entire space, proving how turned on Doyle was to see Bodie. “Could have warned a fellow,” he said, mimicking Bodie’s raised eyebrow.

“Thought we’d rehearsed, for any possibility,” Bodie said, keeping his distance or he would have thrown his arms around Doyle. Didn’t have a mark on him. Around them, car horns were bleating like sheep, and a couple of the junior CI5 agents had sprinted across the embankment to seize Belham before he auditioned for the Olympic diving team. “Long time past.”

“Could have used more practice, then,” Doyle said, swinging the Mac out wide to show a small burn mark on his white Celtic knot jumper. Just about level with his liver, on the right side.

Bodie froze, every self-recrimination slamming him in the gut. Didn’t do to show his guilt, not in front of half of CI5, in the centre of London. 

“Oi! Bodie.” Murphy hailed him, clutching a handcuffed Belham as they crossed the road, juniors in his wake. “Take charge of your mate, here, and get him to interrogation. Cowley wants a word, quick like.”

Belham glowered but didn’t make another attempt for Olympic status when there were cars speeding past. CI5 labourers had already begun dismantling the alcohol checkpoint, which substantially reduced the traffic congestion. 

“What of Sullivan?” Bodie asked, swiveling his head between Doyle and Murphy.

“Oh, you’ll not have heard,” Doyle said cheerfully, giving Belham a bared teeth grin. “He’s in the nick.”

“He’s not!” Belham squeaked like a teen-aged girl seeing the Beatles.

“On a totally unrelated charge,” Doyle continued, buttoning his coat. “I was meant to get word to you, but it all went pear shaped.”

“What went down?” Bodie asked, fascinated and more than a trifle annoyed that all this aggro could have been prevented if he’d known ahead of time.

“Nob with a Learner’s Permit on his car pranged Sullivan’s attempting a left turn,” Murphy said with a laugh.

“Just hard enough to pop open his boot,” Jax added, walking up beside Bodie. 

“Just his luck, they were quite close to the Bethnal Green Police station,” Doyle went on. “Two coppers were there, about to start their shift and saw what was in his boot.”

“Guns,” Bodie said. He’d seen them himself. Had helped pack the weapons, as matter of fact. Without a rug over the lot, to hide them from view. Gave him quite a lift to know his small act of defiance had helped capture Sullivan.

“Guessed it in one.” Doyle nodded, directing a smile of triumph at Bodie.

“Looks like you’re in for a treat, my son,” Bodie said, herding Belham toward the panel van. “Not many who’ll get to meet our Cowley when he’s in a jolly mood.” He looked straight at Doyle, ignoring their colleagues all around. “Need a ride?” he asked.

“May as well,” Doyle agreed.

It wasn’t until he climbed into the passenger seat that Bodie saw him wince.

~*~

It was hours later before they closed the door to Doyle’s flat and were alone. Squaring the prisoners away, writing preliminary reports, and debriefings with Cowley had taken far longer than Bodie was at all happy about. He switched on the light, looking around. Doyle had made an attempt at holiday decorating in the days since Bodie’d been inside. There was a single Christmas card propped on the mantle and a potted evergreen, about ten inches high, with a weird elf perched on the top. 

“Thought I’d killed you,” Bodie said, watching Doyle collapse onto the couch.

Doyle looked rough around the edges, his usual puff of curls drooping. “Didn’t,” he said succinctly. He fumbled with the buttons on the unfamiliar coat but pulling off the sleeves seemed beyond him.

“Might have.” Bodie could let it all out now, admit how the notion terrified him. He tugged on one side of the Macintosh to slide it off his love. He wanted to see the damage he’d inflicted. 

“No.” Doyle caught his hand to coax Bodie down beside him on the cushion. “Don’t have the—“ He turned, surging into Bodie to kiss him on the lips. 

The contact restored his soul, made him whole again. “Don’t have what?” he asked, smiling.

“The heart,” Doyle whispered, “Cause it belongs to me.”

Bodie embraced his love, going deeper into the kiss until Doyle flinched.

“How bad is it?” Bodie demanded, pulling back but ready to yank the cable knit jumper over Doyle’s head. “Don’t see any blood. Where’d you get the Mac?”

“From the chap who owns the chippy. Were perishing in that alley.” Doyle dodged Bodie’s grabbing fingers, but after two abortive tries to lift his arms over his head to remove the jumper, he had to let Bodie do it.

“Bloody hell,” Bodie whispered, his palm hovering centimeters above Doyle’s chest. On the right, in line with where the burn mark on the white wool had been was a small red mark, the sort often caused by brushing skin against a hot coil in the oven when taking out a warmed scone. Unremarkable, really, except that Bodie’s bullet had all but pierced his torso. On the left was a huge bruise, darkening into purple and black, where Belham had kicked him. “Add assault to his charges, the rotter.” He looked up, surprised to see sweet sympathy on Doyle’s face.

“Was harder on you than it was on me, I reckon,” Doyle said, brushing his hand over Bodie’s hair. “I only had to do a bit of street theatre, play dead.”

“Win an Oscar, you should.” Bodie let out a pent up breath, his emotions all a jumble.

“A BAFTA, more like.” Doyle chuckled, kissing Bodie gently on the ear and then his jaw. “What ho, Sheriff!” he said in rather Monty Pythonesque voice.

“Got you now, my pretty Robin Hood.” Bodie cackled like a bad portrayal of the Sheriff of Nottingham in an old fashioned pantomime, fitting his hands around Doyle’s waist. “I was Dick Whittingham in our third form Christmas panto.”

“You were?” Doyle asked in surprise. “I was, as well. Only in fourth year. My sister was the cat.”

“You’re more suited for Alice Fitzwarren,” Bodie said reverently, lowering Doyle back against the armrest of the couch. “Those eyes and that narrow waist.” He scattered feather light kisses across Doyle’s battered chest, giving thanks for his survival with every one.

“Not a bird,” Doyle said, with a mock snarl, arching against Bodie.

“Well aware, petal.” Bodie unzipped Doyle’s flies, pushing his trousers and pants down to mid thigh. Doyle was already full erect, as Bodie was. His own trousers had gone uncomfortably tight in front. “There are signs any gentleman could spy.”

“And you’re no gentleman,” Doyle retorted. “Get on with it or I’ll…” He broke off with a sigh of lust as Bodie went down on him, taking Doyle’s cock deep into his mouth with practised ease.

Bodie loved giving head—at least, giving head to Doyle. Crouching on his hands and knees, he lapped his tongue around the curved end, wrenching a strangled cry from his love, and blew softly across the wet surface. 

Doyle was not without his own talents. He brushed the toes of his right foot against Bodie’s groin, waiting until Bodie had managed to unzip and lower clothing. As Bodie went back to servicing Doyle’s begging cock, Doyle scissored his big toe and second one, scraping them up Bodie’s shaft.

Might be the most fantastic sensation Bodie’d had there in a long time. He laughed when Doyle did it a second time, his tongue tapping the cock he held in his mouth. Doyle came explosively, unconsciously mashing his toes into Bodie’s groin.

“Oi, careful with the merchandise!” Bodie groaned, shaking his fist at the unrepentant fiend. Hadn’t really hurt, more like a dash of spice on his arousal.

“Not planning to buy anything.” Doyle looked up at him, shaking off his own post-climax with a wicked grin. “Thought you were putting out for free.” He leaned forward, but the distance was not optimal. He waggled his fingers, beckoning Bodie closer.

“Randy git,” Bodie muttered, going for dramatic. He shuffled along the couch on his knees until he was basically straddling Doyle. It made for a very tight squeeze, two men on a sofa, but doable. “You’ll pay up later.”

Wrapping both hands around Bodie’s thick length, Doyle rubbed his thumbs against the tight scrotum below. “I’ve a pressie for you if you’ll wait.”

“Yeah?” Bodie laughed as Doyle mouthed the end of his cock and then sucked him in. He could wait any length of time when he was engulfed in such luscious moist heat. “Brill…” He hitched a breath, unable to concentrate on the promised surprise with Doyle’s tongue swirled around his cock. His whole body buzzing with his erection swollen from the stimulation, Bodie orgasmed spectacularly. 

Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie, rolling to the side to tuck him against the back cushions before he got to his feet.

“Where’re you off to?” Bodie grumbled, wanting to burrow against his love.

“Shower, warm clothes, something to eat.”

“A bit of all right.”

“Take your kip, I’m cold.” Doyle shivered in illustration and winced, rubbing his left side.

That swept away the fog. “Ribs broken?” Bodie asked, eyeing his slender torso for signs of swelling. Doyle didn’t seem to have any difficulty breathing.

“Not likely,” Doyle answered over his shoulder. “Possibly cracked, but they’ll mend.” He disappeared into the bog.

Peckish, Bodie gathered up his tattered emotions and slotted them back into the place where they resided except when Doyle was in peril. He preferred to maintain his tough guy reputation with the squad. Pulling on his trousers, Bodie listened to the pitter-patter of the shower, going in search of comestibles.

He rounded up tea with heaps of sugar and milk for both of them. He preferred his that way and Doyle needed the calories for healing. Toast with melted cheese used up all the slightly stale bread and the last of a wedge of cheddar with only a smallish bit of mould growing on the side. Exactly right for whatever-the-bloody-time-it-was at night twenty-four hours before Christmas.

“What’s this then?” 

Doyle walked in, looking like something Father Christmas had left under the tree, in a tartan dressing gown Bodie had never seen before. He even had a bow tied at the waist. Completely absorbed with admiring the view, Bodie didn’t notice that Doyle had commandeered the mug he’d been drinking from until the culprit was slurping up more than his share.

“I’ll have to lodge a complaint with the management around here,” Bodie complained, taking up the second mug of tea for his own. He shoved the plate of toast at Doyle. “Put that in your Aunt Nellie.”

Doyle grinned unrepentantly, rubbing his side. He chomped on the bread and cheese standing there companionably in the kitchen, both of them sidled against each other and the still warm stove.

“Haven’t turned on the electric fire, have you?” Doyle rolled his eyes, handing over the remaining toast. “Can’t be trusted.”

“I’ll have you know I was slaving over the cooker.” Bodie drew himself up to his full height, which was greater than Doyle’s, to defend his honour. “And then you take the cup from my hands.”

“You did feed me.” Doyle smiled sweetly, kissing him with a dash of passion. “After trying to shoot me.”

“Missed, didn’t I?” He could make light of it now that it was all over. The possibilities haunted him, sending a cold shiver down his spine. He chased away the horrors, watching Doyle warm his hands against the metal hob.

“Guess you’ve earned your pressie, then.” Doyle pointed to a cupboard over his head. “I’m injured, you’ll have to crawl up on a step stool yourself.”

“So it’s to be a scavenger hunt?” Bodie chuckled, fetching the collapsible stool. He had to reach onto the back of the shelf to find a cello wrapped package with a jaunty bow on the top. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, his nose alerting him to what it might be.

“Same place I got the tree and that elf. Mind, he’s called William Andrew Phillip cause his eyebrows are uneven,” Doyle grinned, draining his cup. “The shop down the lane had a special on Christmas cheer.”

Bodie tore at the cellophane, inhaling the delicious scent of mince tarts. Twelve round pies nestled in a red and green box, quite similar to the plaid of Doyle’s robe. 

“All for you,” Doyle said, caressing Bodie’s cheek.

“You do love me.” Bodie’s heart, so stressed only hours ago, beat double time for his love.

“My turn to shoot you next performance of our panto?” Doyle smirked when Bodie kissed him hard.

FIN


End file.
